


Holy Stone and Sand

by CloudAtlas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crossover, Gen, Magic, Prophetic Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 09:11:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15215897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudAtlas/pseuds/CloudAtlas
Summary: “Clayr gain their Sight at around eleven. Since I was eleven I have had only one vision, and it has lead me here.”Natasha could see Clint’s shoulders hunch and the grip on his mug getting tighter.“We have lost one of the bloodlines,” Natasha repeated quietly. “And now I am here.”





	Holy Stone and Sand

**Author's Note:**

> This is so fucking old guys. It was beta'd by **inkvoices** literally years ago and all I remember was her saying something "wasn't quite right" about it, so I put it away and haven't looked at it since. But it is complete, so I've decided it's time to post it.
> 
> This is based within the world of the Old Kingdom trilogy created by Garth Nix. Technically it takes places maybe two-ish generations after the events of _Abhorsen_ , but all you really need to know is that the magic of the Old Kingdom (the Charter) is maintained by four groups; the Royal Family, the Abhorsen (who puts the restless dead to rest), the Clayr (who can see possible futures) and the Wallmakers ('magicians' who pour most of their magic into inanimate objects).
> 
> The title is from [The Banks of Newfoundland](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hKvIbUk-AAs).

It wasn’t that she hated the Glacier, Natasha reflected as she worked her way through the muddied streets of High Bridge. It’s just that the Glacier is so confined; walled in. You could live your entire life there – and girls did – without ever leaving the high walls and ice. She couldn’t cope with that.

But then Yelena had never understood that. Yelena, with her blonde hair and lightly tanned skin, couldn’t quite grasp what it was like for Natasha – who wasn’t _the_ most usual Clayr to be born in the past hundred years, but who was unusual enough.

Natasha fought her way past two traders from down south – near the Red Lake, if their accents were anything to go by – just as the sky, which had been threatening rain all day – finally opened up, soaking her to the bone within minutes. She rolled her eyes. She certainly wouldn’t get rained on quite as much if she’d stayed that the Glacier though, she had to concede to that. Much as she disliked the cold, snow was better than rain any day.

Natasha huddled under the awning of a grocers stall and rummaged in her pack for her leather notebook, searching for the rough map drawn for her by the publican of a tiny village further up the Ratterlin. She studied the map then squinted through the rain, searching for the blacksmith’s sign. It was about four doors down on the left.

She was going the right way.

Natasha walked another couple of streets – heading roughly in the direction of the river – while periodically ducking under cover, more for respite from the rain than any real need to check her map again. However, when she reached the place where the map indicated her destination should be, the tavern was nowhere in sight.

For a moment Natasha simply stood in the mud, rain pelting down, squinting in turn at each street branching out from where she stood and willing her destination to miraculously appear. When it didn’t, she retreated into the doorway of a nearby shop to study her map once more. _There_ was the road leading to the bridge, and _there_ was the boarding house called the Stag and _there_ was the building the map-drawer embarrassingly admitted was a brothel. The tavern she was looking for was supposed to be between them, but she couldn’t find it.

Suddenly paranoid, Natasha checked the date. Then she pulled out her almanac and checked today was the first half-moon of winter.

But today _was_ the first, and it also _was_ the first half-moon. The only thing missing was the tavern.

There was a crack of thunder overhead and a flash of lightning so bright that Natasha had to blink profusely before afterimages of the street stopped dancing in front of her eyes. When her vision had cleared she stuffed her notebook and almanac roughly into her pack, annoyed to have fallen at the last hurdle. But just as she was about to step back into the rain another bright flash of lightning illuminated the road; harsh white light chasing the darkness away and revealing, for a brief moment, a stark black space between the boarding house and the brothel, indicating an alleyway hardly big enough for two to pass comfortably.

Natasha narrowed her eyes as the darkness rushed back in. Perhaps she had not failed quite yet.

Shouldering her pack, Natasha made for where she recalled the entrance to the alleyway being, crossing over the rutted and muddy road which was swiftly becoming quagmire thanks to the rain. She then waited for another flash of lightning to illuminate the alleyway once more.

And there it was – the Blind Archer – tucked down an alleyway between a boarding house and a brothel in such a way that it was as if it didn’t wish to be found. But Natasha had found it.

With the next flash of lightning Natasha did a quick scan of the alley, noting the rubbish-strewn mud, the rotting ale barrels and how it lead to a dead end. The boarding house and the brothel were apparently connected. How… convenient.

Natasha made her way to the tavern’s entrance; the bright white of the lightning making the yellow glow from its grubby windows seem dimmer than it probably was. She could hear the sign creaking above her, but the darkness and driving rain meant that she couldn’t make out anything more than a brief glint of water off wood.

She paused just before going in, the sudden knowledge of what she was about to do, who she was supposed to find here, pressing at her from all sides. The vision had come only to her, and Lord Leith was unlikely ever to admit to dalliances with whores in his youth, particularly if they resulted in bastard children and especially if said bastards were the inheritors of a bloodline that many believed should remain within the royal family. Though, Natasha reasoned, if everything was proved to be as she suspected it, Lord Leith could deny all he wanted; the existence of the bastard and their power would be enough to prove him wrong regardless.

Poor Prince Sameth though. He would be so disappointed in his son. It was common knowledge that Prince Sameth and Lord Leith had never really seen eye to eye, but Natasha felt Prince Sameth deserved better than Leith. Hell, almost any father would deserve better than Leith. Natasha hoped that this potential bastard offspring of the idiot Lord had inherited better sense than their father.

Natasha briefly grasped her sword, taking comfort in the Charter spells woven into the metal. She had been given the sword just before leaving the Glacier on her first trade mission. Klemeth said it had just appeared for her and Natasha had survived many skirmishes thanks to it.

It gave her courage when she needed it.

Releasing the sword hilt, Natasha took a breath and stepped into the tavern, shaking water from her hair and looking around.

It was no bigger than a small drawing room, and contained a bar and six tables crammed closely together. The majority of its light came from a huge fire, though there were some oil laps in wall fixtures and a lone Charter light behind the bar. Natasha was the only woman there, though she didn’t know if that was usual or because there were only two other people inside, including the surly looking barman.

Natasha immediately dismissed the barman as the person she was searching for, so as she approached the bar to order a drink – something she both needed to remain in the tavern, and generally just _needed_ – she subtly eyed the other patron. But he must have been in his fifties, overweight and with grizzled grey hair and the distinct air of an alcoholic. He couldn’t be who she was looking for either.

Natasha sat herself down heavily at the bar. Perhaps she was to fail after all.

Well, at least the Blind Archer was warm and dry. It would serve well enough as a place to contemplate her failure and plan for the future. And its moonshine was a step up from ‘blindness inducing’ which meant it was better than the last place she spent any time in. Natasha removed her oilcoat and pack before pulling out her notebook and almanac once more. It wouldn’t hurt to check her notes once again.

She was on her second tumbler of moonshine – Fuller’s Down, the barman informed her – when a note in the margin of her notebook caught her eye.

‘The plough is high’ it said. ‘Break in the cloud’.

Natasha frowned. What did that mean? She’d had variations on the basic vision ever since she got the Sight at eleven, and even though she’d only started recording them when she was fifteen, it didn’t necessarily mean that she actually remembered every disparity. Or even that they would make any sense. Visions tended to get more coherent the closer it was to becoming reality, but Natasha hadn’t had anything at all since the dream telling her the ‘Blind Archer’ in High Bridge a week ago. It was more like she got flashes of this person’s past, rather than any real way of finding them. After all, there was no actual proof outside of her dreams to that Lord Leith had enjoyed the company of whores in his youth – and probably still, if his reputation was anything to go by – or that there were any bastard lords or ladies running around with the blood of the Fourth Great Charter running though their veins.

Nevertheless, she may as well see this through to the end. ‘The plough is high’. Did that mean the constellation? She wasn’t really in the right place for actual ploughs. High Bridge was mostly reliant on river trade, not farming. But Natasha checked the walls of the tavern for a plough blade or similar, just in case.

Nothing. So the constellation it was. Natasha sent a look the way of the barman, one that said ‘watch my things and on your head be it if they go missing’ and once he’d nodded his understanding, she moved towards the doorway.

It had stopped raining – something she hadn’t noticed while being inside, clearly the walls here were thick – and, as her notes hinted at, the clouds had parted just enough for her to make out the plough, high above her head. It was familiar, the arrangement of clouds and small points of light, and that comforted her. Then the tavern sign caught her eye – a man with a bandage over his eyes and a bow on his back, sat on a log and with a hart shot with arrows lying at his feet. She had seen this before too. She would stay here until morning. Clayr visions were never really wrong, just muddled. If she was to make sense of hers, she would have to wait out this half-moon night.

Natasha returned to the bar, suddenly noticing that she was still soaked to the bone and starting to smell like wet dog and endless, muddy travel. She needed a bath and a bed, but she could have neither until this night was through. So instead she pictured the Charter marks for warmth and drying, stringing them together in her mind before floating them out into the air before her, and watching as the rainwater steamed from her soiled clothes. She then relocated to a table in the corner, beside the fire, and proceeded to remove her armour and boots. The grizzled drunkard watched with apparent interest, as if he expected her to keep going, but she shot him a poisonous look and he returned to his drink. The barman, on the other hand, didn’t bat an eyelid and Natasha raised him another notch in her estimation.

She had been only about half an hour at her new table when the door opened, admitting another into the tavern. Or another two, would be more accurate, though it was the man in front who Natasha noticed first. He was muscular and blonde, with arms that spoke of battle and a body that spoke of labour. He was also very handsome; his eyes kind and his mouth full and with a slant that implied he was more prone to smiling than to anything else.

If Natasha was the type to bed strangers frequently, she would proposition this man without a moment’s hesitation. If the Clayr had sons, he is what they would look like.

The barman greeted the man by name – Tor – and Natasha realised that this Tor being Clayr may be not too far off the mark. Tor is not a Clayr name, but Natasha recalls that the people to the north of the Glacier have much the same build and colour, and their names tend to be uncommonly short, in comparison to the rest of the Old Kingdom.

It is only when the barman greeted the other as well – Clint – that Natasha even noticed him, and she momentarily berated herself for being so unobservant before trying to get a better look without being too obvious, something made difficult by the fact that, from where she was sat, this Clint was almost entirely hidden by Tor’s considerable bulk.

But she had until the end of the night, she could afford to be patient.

 

Natasha had a feeling this may yet work out. Considering how busy – or not, as the case may be – the tavern was, and the fact that Tor was very clearly not the person she was looking for, Natasha reasoned that the other man may prove important.

Of course, others may still arrive, but something about Tor was familiar. Natasha couldn’t recall properly, but his hammer gave her this niggling sensation she had come to associate with remembered visions. In fact, the whole scene in the tavern did now. Nothing tangible, like her note about the plough and the sky, but it was there nonetheless; a feeling that couldn’t be recorded on paper.

And then Tor moved and Natasha was sure.

He didn’t have Lord Leith’s tightly curled hair or his strong cheekbones, but Natasha could see him in this man’s chin, his build, the set of his mouth and the focus of his gaze. This man, this Clint, was the one she had been searching for; the bastard son of a royal lord and a whore. The inheritor of a bloodline that few had wanted to acknowledge had been lost almost as soon as it had been found.

Suddenly Natasha was made aware that she had spent so much time and effort trying to find this man that she had given no proper thought as to how she should approach him.

Natasha did some quick calculations and, judging it to be around midnight, decided that buying another drink was as good a way to start as any. If all else failed, she’d at least have another mug of Fuller’s Down.

Thanks to some fortuitous timing – Tor had evidently got hungry and was currently dipping a not-so-clean hand into a giant jar of pickled _something –_ Natasha came to the bar between the two men. It offered her a better view of this Clint and she studied him out of the corner of her eye as the barman got her another drink.

 _This man is a Wallmaker_ , she thought. After all this time she could hardly believe it. He looked so ordinary.

Natasha thought about all her visions; visions that she’d stopped sharing aged fifteen when enough of the other girls started to think she was lying. Fifteen years of visions telling her something very few others believed and something she had no way of proving without first finding this person _,_ this man. And it all ended in the Blind Archer – a grubby tavern in High Bridge.

She was so focused on her memories that she jumped when Clint spoke to her.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Natasha asked.

The man Clint gave her a wry smile. “Sorry for startling you.”

“That’s quite alright,” Natasha replied, waving away his apologies and inviting him to ask again.

“I just wondered how you ended up here. You don’t look like a regular trader.”

Natasha was surprised by this. She had left the Glacier when she was eighteen, getting a job with the traders as it was the only way to leave. After three years as a Clayr trader she’d simply continued south instead of returning in the winter as Clayr traders normally do, taking odd jobs and slowly following the breadcrumb trail left by her jumbled visions. Once she’s stopped identifying herself as Clayr, choosing rather to just be another trader/traveller, no one had ever taken her for anything else.

She looked closer at Clint, meeting his gaze head on. His eyes were dark grey, another thing he had in common with his absent father, and they seemed to see more than they should.

“No,” she said finally, “I suppose I am not a regular trader.”

Clint said nothing in return, and Natasha decided that if she was going to have any chance at convincing this man that he was a bastard not-royal Wallmaker, she would have to be honest.

“I’m Clayr,” she said eventually. It was strange saying that out loud again after so many years of lying to those who asked.

Clint nodded like that made sense. “I can see it,” he said.

Natasha raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Clayr were blonde and tanned in the sun. Natasha was pale as anything, burned if she wasn’t careful, and had the reddest hair of anyone she’d ever met. She had always suspected that her father must have been from Ancelstierre, as red hair was not common in the Old Kingdom. The only thing Clayr about her appearance was her eyes, which were as blue green as any Clayr.

Clint lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, returning his gaze to his drink. “You hold yourself differently to other women,” he said, before taking a drink.

He looked back at her as he returned his mug to the table. “You have Clayr eyes,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“Blue green,” he said shortly. “They see far.”

And at Natasha’s rather dumbfounded expression he gave a small smile.

“Clint,” he said, holding his hand out for her to shake.

“Natasha,” she replied. His hands were calloused in the way that suggested proficiency with a bow.

“Natasha,” he repeated. “That doesn’t sound like a Clayr name.”

“Natlae then. Clint doesn’t sound like an Old Kingdom name.”

“It’s not,” he replied without elaborating. For a brief moment Natasha entertained the possibility that Clint’s mother was also from Ancelstierre, but she didn’t feel that was correct. As far as Natasha could make out, Clint’s mother was from Orchyre and Lord Leith met her on the way to a diplomatic function over the Wall. She decided not to press.

“You didn’t answer my question though,” Clint said after a moment.

Natasha thought back over their conversation.

“That’s because you didn’t phrase it as a question,” she replied, smiling.

Clint only managed a half smile in return. “Alright then,” he said. “How is it you ended up in the Blind Archer in High Bridge, Natlae of the Clayr?”

The true answer – looking for the Wallmaker who, it turns out, is probably you – is not something Natasha wanted to disclose this early in their conversation, so she went with the equally true, “I needed to get out of the rain.”

Clint snorted quietly and returned to his drink.

“What about you?” she asked after a moment.

Clint gave her another half shrug and sent a not-smile her way. “Fuller’s Down drowns sorrows without the headache the next day,” is all he said.

Both Natasha and Clint were quiet then, Tor talking to the barman and the crackling of the fire being the only noises in the tavern for a while.

“What happened?” Natasha finally asked.

Clint didn’t speak for a long while and Natasha fiddled with the handle of her mug. “You don’t have to tell me but…” Natasha trailed off. The ‘sometimes it’s good to talk’ was evident, even if it was left unsaid.

“Clash with mercenaries downriver,” he eventually replied. “Killed a friend. Tor’s brother.”

“I’m sorry.”

Clint was silent again for a while.

“Lok was a great Charter mage,” he volunteered after a while. “He taught me much.”

“And you?” She asked, seeing her opening and eying the Charter mark faint on his forehead. “Are you a great Charter mage?”

Clint snorted and shrugged, and Natasha would have missed his, “I was great when I was six,” that he muttered into his glass if she wasn’t entirely focussed on him.

“And now?” Natasha pressed quietly, but Clint ignored her.

Natasha sighed. She could think of no way to bring this up, no way to tell him, without first explaining why she was here, in this tavern in High Bridge on the first half-moon. But explanations were lengthy and if he left, if he wanted nothing to do with this, Natasha doubted that she’d be able to find him again. He was clearly a great traveller and adept at blending in. Natasha had only ever had one vision since she gained the Sight and it culminated here. If he left, she’d never find him again.

“We have lost one of the bloodlines,” she said suddenly, and Clint tilted his head slightly to indicate that he had heard, even though his gaze didn’t meet hers. “We have Abhorsen Lirael and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. We have the Clayr and Queen Ellimere and her children and grandchildren. And we have Prince Sameth and Lord Leith. But we do not have Lord Leith’s children.”

Natasha couldn’t tell if Clint was listening, but she continued regardless. Tor and the barman were on the other side of the room, and the drunk was unlikely to be aware of more than his tankard.

“Clayr gain their Sight at around eleven. Since I was eleven I have had only one vision, and it has lead me here.”

Natasha could see Clint’s shoulders hunch and the grip on his mug getting tighter.

“We have lost one of the bloodlines,” Natasha repeated quietly. “And now I am here.”

“No,” Clint said, quietly but firmly.

“You’re – ”

“No,” he said, louder and more forcefully this time. “I’m not.”

He turned to look at her and his eyes are Lord Leith’s. She knew this not because she’s met the man, but because she’s _Seen_.

“I’m not part of this. You’re not dragging me into some hair-brained scheme because it suits your visions. I’m a trader out of High Bridge and a sworn swordsman when it suits. I am not a lord, or royalty, or anything you’re implying. I am what you see here and nothing more.”

He threw some coins down on the bar and angrily gathered his belongings, calling over his shoulder, “Tor, I’ll see you back at the Shield. Caliban, thanks for the drink.”

He was almost at the door when Natasha spoke again.

“Has no one ever mentioned that you resemble Lord Leith?”

Clint’s shoulders tensed, and he stopped with his hand on the door handle.

“Because you do. The same eyes and build and chin.”

He turned then, looking furious.

“You say you are what I see here and nothing more, and what I see is someone who looks uncannily like Lord Leith.”

Underneath Clint’s fury Natasha could see a myriad of emotions; uncertainty, indignation, sorrow, disbelief. And fear. Natasha understood all but the fear.

“Clint?” Tor’s voice came to her as if through water, and she is momentarily startled. Natasha had almost forgotten that they were not alone. “Are you alright?”

Clint didn’t reply for the longest time. Nor did his furious eyes leave Natasha’s face. He was still with one hand on the door handle, though, and Natasha knew that whatever happened next would be of vital importance.

“Caliban,” Clint suddenly said in a very low voice, “Could you leave us a moment.”

It didn’t sound like a request.

Natasha didn’t turn, but she could hear the barman – Caliban – replacing mugs and shuffling things behind the bar. Then there was a beat of silence and finally Caliban’s voice saying “don’t break anything,” and the sound of a door shutting. Natasha resisted the urge to turn and check that the drunk was passed out.

“Clint?” Came Tor’s voice again, more worried this time, but again Clint ignored him. Briefly Natasha wondered just what kind of men these two were, if they could ask a barman to leave his own bar. Then brought her mind quickly back into the present as Clint looked as if he was working himself up to speak.

Natasha beat him to it.

“How long does it take for you to spell your arrows?” She asked abruptly, and Clint was momentarily left floundering.

“Huh?”

“Your arrows. I assume you spell them. Them and all your weapons. How long does it take?”

“What does it matter?” Clint replied furiously.

“My sword was spelled before I was given it and I’ve never had to re-spell it. But I spell my arrows sometimes. It takes me a full day to do about four and I’m exhausted afterwards, so I only do it when I’m really low on food and can’t afford to miss.”

Clint looked terrified again and Natasha cursed herself internally for not thinking this through beforehand. For not planning how to approach this when it finally happened. But it was too late now, so she simply continued and hoped to the Charter that she didn’t drive him away.

“How long does it take you?” Natasha pressed.

“Miss,” Came Tor’s voice again, closer now, “Whatever this is, stop it now.”

This wasn’t going to work, Natasha could tell. She wished she had thought about this more, actually planned how to approach whoever the Wallmaker ended up being. But she hadn’t, and her usual methods weren’t working with this man.

Natasha quickly thought over her earlier conversation with him. The only times he had been apparently comfortable and engaged where when she was talking about herself. _Honestly_ talking about herself, without the underlying intention of trying to get information out of him.

But she was just so _tired_ of all this. All these years – since she was eighteen and going out with the Clayr traders – searching; following the only vision she has ever had. If this is it, she can _stop_ , do something else, anything else, instead of chasing visions across the Old Kingdom – visions she can’t prove past the fact that she’s Clayr and Clayr are mostly correct. Even though for some reasons she’s only ever had visions about the recent past and immediate future.

She was tired of this. Natasha wanted this man to be _it_ , so she could _stop_.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she said, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that she was dressed only in her under armour, smelling of rain and travel with her damp wool socks leaving wet footprints on the tiled floor.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “It’s just… this is – I’ve never done anything else. I’ve spent my life – since I was eighteen – trying to find this… person, from my visions and… if you’re them, I can… I can _stop_ and it’ll be over. I just – I don’t even know how to be sure.”

Natasha then goes to run her hands though her hair in frustration but her fingers got stuck in the knots and she tugged them out, wishing for a bath, a comb, a _bed_.

She darted a quick glance to Tor behind her. He still looked angry, but he had relaxed slightly, and Natasha realised that a great deal of the tension in the room had been coming from him. His anger seemed almost to charge the air, like lightning.

When she turned back to Clint she saw that he had taken his hand off the door handle – finally – and looked just about to say something when there was a loud crash. The three of them jumped and turned towards the drunk in the corner, who had finally succumbed to unconsciousness, his mug of Fuller’s Down slowly spreading a puddle across the floor.

There was a moment of silence and then, collectively, the three continued on as if nothing had happened.

“You mean you have no way to prove any of this?” Clint asked.

Natasha thought the fact that he looked uncannily like Lord Leith was proof enough, but she knew that wasn’t necessarily enough for others.

She looked away again, her eyes catching on the pool of beer.

“I – no,” she said. The beer glittered, and she felt slightly light headed. “It’s not like they’re – ” she couldn’t look away from the pool of beer and she was distantly aware that this was the onset of another vision, “ – not – ” and then she moved in such a way for light to reflect back from the pool, and colours and images exploded across her vision.

She saw herself reaching out to touch the Charter mark on Clint’s forehead, and being engulfed in Charter symbols, whirling around her in never-ending loops and whorls. She saw Prince Sameth, his grey eyes smiling, and Yelena opening a book in the Great Library of the Clayr. She saw the vision chamber at the Clayr Glacier, full of every Clayr currently of Seeing Age – all three hundred and twenty seven of them – focussing on the vision manifesting on the ice. She was Charter spelled arrows and silver daggers slicing through the air, and a little girl; red haired and somehow familiar.

Abruptly, the images faded, leaving only faint afterimages of Charter marks dancing across her vision. Natasha looked up to find herself face-to-face with Clint, who looked concerned and if ready to catch her if she fell, his hand outstretched. She started and stepped back into Tor, who, it seemed had had a similar idea to Clint, and caught her before she could stumble over her own sock clad feet.

“What was _that_?” Clint asked forcefully, as if trying to hind the fact that he was rattled by that had happened.

“Vision,” Natasha bit out, feeling shaking and tired and off kilter. She shrugged out of Tor’s – surprisingly gentle – grip and sank onto the nearest bench.

Well, now at least she had a way to check, but the Clayr and Yelena and the child? What did they mean? The arrows she guessed as Clint’s and the daggers had looked like hers, but Prince Sameth? Yelena’s book? And what was the vision that needed all the Clayr? And _the child_?

“What did you see?”

Clint’s voice broke her out of her musings.

“Huh?”

“And are you alright, miss?” Tor this time, sounding nothing like the man from earlier.

“Yes, yes I’m fine,” Natasha said, waving away Tor’s concerns. “Just a little tired.”

Natasha rubbed her hands over her eyes and stared at her socked feet for a moment before sighing and straightening up.

“May I?” She asked, reaching out to indicate the faint Charter mark on Clint’s forehead. In placing near the Wall it was common to check marks upon meeting anyone, even now, but High Bridge was well fortified and far away enough from the Wall for people mostly not to bother.

“Why?” asked Clint, suddenly wary. “You didn’t ask when we first spoke, why now?”

Natasha shrugged, her harm still outstretched. “Because apparently this is how we check.”

Natasha noticed immediately the tension ratchet up in Clint’s body and behind her, Tor lets out “Clint?” quiet and concerned.

“Look,” Natasha said, dropping her hand. “I just want to know. I want to know so I can stop chasing visions the length and breadth of this country. You don’t have to _do_ anything. It… it doesn’t have to change anything.” Natasha remembered the arrows and the daggers and the _child_ and knows it will though. “I just need to know so I can _stop_.”

Clint looked at her, staring as if he could suss out all her secrets.

He nodded, once, and raised his hand to touch her forehead and Natasha did the same. She nodded in return and his thumb brushed her skin, the heat contact zipping down her spine, and Natasha remembered the _child_.

And then her forefinger touched his Charter mark and she was lost – lost to a stream of Charter marks stronger and brighter than any she had ever encountered before, save for the Great Stone in the Clayr’s Glacier.

It would only have been seconds, but it felt like days later that her hand came away from Clint’s forehead. He looked no different – because _she_ was nothing extraordinary – but from the expression on his face, she must have looked at least a little of how she felt; shocked and slightly elated.

His eyes were questioning and slightly fearful, and she nodded again, just once,

All the energy seemed to drain out of him, and she stumbled backwards until he knocked into a bench and sat down.

 _He’s a Wallmaker_ , Natasha thought. _He’s a Wallmaker and a bastard lord and so incredibly strong._

“Charter preserve us,” Clint muttered.

“Alright,” Tor suddenly said, “That’s enough. What is going on Clint? Who is this woman?”

Natasha thought of the arrows and the daggers and the child and said nothing.

“ _Clint_.”

“Lok was right,” Clint muttered.

“What?” Tor said, as Natasha jerked around to look at him.

“Lok,” Clint said, sounding tired. “When he trained me. Or… anyway. Said I was… stronger…”

Clint trailed off.

“Explain,” Tor said forcefully. “What is going on? What was my brother right about? _Who is this woman?_ ”

“She’s Natlae of the Clayr,” Clint said distractedly, “and…” he conjured a Charter light between his fingers and then, without him saying anything, it became pink, then blue, then purple, then a little flower, before going out.

He stared at his fingers for a moment before saying softly, “I’m a Wallmaker.”


End file.
